Authors: Randy Jurgensen
Other high-profile supporters of the Nation of Islam such as Angela Davis and Stokely Carmichael showed up at court on a daily basis.
I'd been to so many trials in all my time on the job, everything came sort of rote. The questioning from the prosecution, the annoying and needless objections from the defense, all done in order to test the judge's level of patience, and also to gauge which side of the case he was leaning on—all very good trial tactics. Most of the time, unfortunately, it's not about the facts of the case, the evidence, or even the witnesses. It's how you present the case and how you use whatever weapons you have in your arsenal. That could sometimes come in the form of a sympathetic judge, or juror, or even a spectator. We were lucky that we were all salty dogs on the stand, had stood before this judge many times, and were as prepped as we ever could be.
The defense's tactics were also good. Their lead counselor was Edward
Jacko. He had made it a point to block my vision of Dupree. The jurors would have picked up on the fact that he was incapable of looking directly into my eyes, a telltale sign of guilt. Jacko was quite savvy and aware that we, the prosecution, had the thinnest case ever presented in any court, from Manhattan to Zimbabwe. But again, to disavow that would be a lie. So my captain, Jim Harmon, came out swinging with the cold hard facts: yes, we did have a shitty case, but that wasn't our fault, it was the bosses' fault for following the administration's illegal orders, pulling us from the mosque, abandoning the crime scene. “Yes,” he'd say in his strong powerful voice, “The NYPD made mistake after mistake on this case, but their biggest mistake,” He moved to the jurors with arms open in supplication, “was placing that man,” he pointed at me on the stand, “Detective Randy Jurgensen, on this case.”
This went on, back and forth, like a tennis match between the defense and Harmon for days. I was questioned, quizzed, prodded, and probed for five long days, and then another two. The case, at the time, was the most expensive trial in the history of New York State. It cost approximately half a million dollars. It was to be the longest one in history as well, lasting five long months. The prosecution brought on forty-six witnesses for their case, the defense—none—they didn't have to, the daunting task of proving a case with no crime scene and two flimsy witnesses was good enough for them. Their assumption was that somewhere along the trial, one of the boss-hating, racist NYPD cops was going to contradict himself, thus imploding on the witness stand. This never happened. I could see the case starting to gel. Jacko was a sweater. He was never without a handkerchief in either hand, ready to swaddle the beads of sweat from his neck, face, and forehead—this was good—indicated frustration. He was also a fighter—not good when you appear to be frustrated and out of control. He asked me, “Tell me something, Detective, aren't you considered somewhat of a rogue cop by your colleagues and your superiors?”
Harmon stood slowly, appearing as cool as Elvis, “Objection, Your Honor, answer in response to the defense: He is referred to as Detective Jurgensen.”
Counselor Jacko came back, “Well do you always disobey orders from your superiors?”
“No, Counselor, I don't.”
“Well, weren't you told to leave the scene of the mosque on April the 14, 1972?”
“Yes I was.”
“But you disobeyed orders and went back to get you some, uhhh, payback. Isn't that right?”
I knew where he was going and knew he was being fed information from within, regarding my pending charges. “No, Sir, I was asked to report back to the mosque to clear a roof of young men who were pelting the cops and civilians with bricks.”
“Then you left the scene, yes?”
“Affirmative, Counselor, though not under my own power. I was hit with a brick and carried away.”
“Was the crime scene covered? Pictures taken? Was it completed and finished as you, a New York City detective and expert witness on such matters, would deem it as such?”
“No, as a matter of fact, the crime scene was hastily being wiped clean of blood and such by members of the mosque.”
“Hmm, hastily cleansed, members of the mosque? Tell me something, Jurgensen, isn't it a fact that you're used to doing things your own way, telling them your own way, whichever way they seem to work for you?”
“No, Sir, if I did that in this courtroom, I could be arrested. I'm a law-and-order type of Police Officer. It's what I do.”
He almost charged to the defense table, snapped up a paper with my pending charges on it. He moved to the jurors, slowly passing them so they could read the fine print. “Forgery, conduct unbecoming an officer, oh, here's a good one, failure to safeguard a witness.”
I was stunned. This was leaked information, and it was improper in these court proceedings. He continued, “What witness would that be?”
“He is a baker and an upstanding member of Mosque Number 7. His name is Foster 2X Thomas.”
“Aha! And is he your only witness to this alleged shooting leveled against my client, Lewis Dupree. And let's have the court document that he is no ordinary member to Mosque Number 7. He is, in fact, the dean of boys. He is responsible for showing the teachings and true meaning of Islam to our younger members. Tell me something, Jurgensen. How is it that out of all the witnesses inside the mosque that day, this Foster 2X Thomas was the only one who allegedly saw my client fire a shot at this cop?”
“I can't answer for any of the other witnesses, nor can I answer for Foster 2X Thomas. All I can say is that is the way it happened. Foster 2X Thomas witnessed Lewis 17X Dupree pull Phil Cardillo's gun from its holster, and fire once into his midsection. This he reiterated to me on numerous occasions,
without any coaxing or duress. It was addressed to me under his own volition and free will as a true Muslim, keeping with the word of Allah, according to him.”
“How was it that you found this so-called eyewitness?”
I went on to explain my forty-nine campaign. He came back at me asserting that this was against standard operating procedures. I agreed, though made my point that it worked, and I'd eventually take the departmental heat for it gladly, because it got us an eyewitness. He then came at me with the
scofflaw
designation again, saying I had no respect for authority or protocol. Somebody in IAD must've sent the defense everything they had on me. The only answer to that was the truth. I wasn't given a police plate, even though I had asked for one, so I acquired lots of parking tickets.
“So you say, Jurgensen. So you say. You also say you saw a partial crime scene, being cleansed hastily, I believe was the phrase you used. Does mopped-up blood construe a crime scene in your expert analysis?”
“Sometimes, Sir, as do bullets and projectiles.”
“Bullets, but there were no bullets on this crime scene, now were there?”
“Uh, as a matter of fact, there were a number of bullet holes at the scene, all of which we were unable to remove, because we were told to leave the scene immediately.”
Jacko spun around like a man possessed. He charged me, wiping the glossy froth from his hairline, “You mean to tell me, you saw bullet holes inside the mosque?”
I leaned in and quietly said, “I saw those bullet holes in the ceiling and in the walls as clearly as I am watching the man in the fourth row drag his finger across his throat as he is pointing at me, indicating he wants to slit my throat.”
The courtroom exploded. The contingent of Muslims stood at attention, fists clenched, feet at parade rest. The other half of the courtroom jumped from their chairs, cowering near the furthest walls, doorways, even under chairs. Judge Evans, a no-nonsense ex-marine, slammed the gavel so hard on his desk it spit in two. He screamed, “Now that is enough! I will clear this courtroom immediately, and for good.”
At that, Captain Josephs raised his hand, then slowly lowered it. All of the Muslims sat in perfect unison; order was restored. Judge Evans pointed at all of the attorneys, “In my chambers, now. You stay right here, Jurgensen.”
I stood on the stand, unafraid. I looked at every Muslim in the room,
their icy stares filled with resolve. Mine, in return, said the same. I looked at Dupree. He fidgeted with paper, a pen, some lint on his natty suit, even the striations on the wood of the defense's table. He did not once look at me. I had the son of a bitch murderer, and it felt fucking good!
The defense, along with the prosecution, all filed back into the courtroom. A uniformed court officer approached, smiled with a wink, and said quietly, “The judge wishes your presence in his chambers, Detective Jurgensen. Oh and by the way, one of the jurors wanted you to have this.” He handed me a slip of paper scribbled with pencil, it read:
Ode to Randy
Randy the Rhinestone Cowboy
Was the toughest cop I've ever seen
He had a lot of class
But he sure could kick ass
On those turkeys at one-sixteen
One out of twelve jurors wasn't a bad start to a trial no one thought had legs. I smiled as I entered Judge Evans's chambers. It was evident he was trying to absorb his frustration before I entered the room. Sitting behind his cavernous mahogany desk, his face was red with controlled anger. I could tell he'd just blasted the men who'd exited his office. Harmon was sitting across his desk, looking as though he was trying to pass a kidney stone. He wasn't the type of man who enjoyed getting his ass chewed, especially in front of the enemy.
The judge was drafting up a court order, which was basically a warrant for us to go to the mosque to retrieve the bullets. His anger was directed, thank God, not at me, but at the end of that poor, expensive-looking fountain pen he was writing with. With every letter he wrote, he said to me, “This case is a disgrace. Do you both know that?”
bang!
He must've crossed a T or dotted an I. “An absolute disgrace, this case should've been solved in the first forty-eight hours, especially,”
bang!
Maybe this time it was a period. “If those damn bullets are still there!”
I said, “Sir, they are there. One of my witnesses, Mitchell 5X San-San, told me he saw them less than two weeks ago. They're there.”
The judge signed it, slid it across the desk to Harmon, looked at me and said, “You go there forthwith, and return with the speed of lightning. My patience is wearing very thin, and we haven't even begun yet!”
We took our NYPD ballistics expert, Richie Wrase, with us. The interesting thing about Richie was that he was one of the few men to have entered the mosque on the day of occurrence, so he knew the terrain and the
interior environment
well. None of us talked much as we approached 116th Street. Richie quietly asked me, “Rand, you carrying?”
“Yes, Richie, I'm strapped heavy,” meaning I had my side arm and shotgun.
I double-parked. Harmon, the West Pointer, led the way. I'd follow the man anywhere. He knocked loudly on the double doors, which opened almost immediately. Harmon said, “I'm Assistant District Attorney James Harmon and I have a court order to search the premises.”
Before he could finish his sentence, the door was being forced closed. Harmon, Richie, and I pushed back, but it was a losing battle. There were at least fifteen men on the other side. My only thought was,
“Why isn't that fucking mayor here with his puppet police commissioner? They should be fighting to open this door, not us!”
Harmon was able to get his foot in the door jam. The only way that door was closing would be by crushing Jim's ankle, and we weren't about to let that happen. We pushed harder; Jim was able to slip his body halfway in. He screamed, “Open this door or all of you will be arrested immediately.”
Suddenly, the door whooshed open. The defense attorney, Jacko, appeared nearly smiling. At first I thought Jim was going to smash the life right out of him. He held out the writ. We stepped in and jumped as we heard the doors behind us slam closed, the bolts locking into place. My only thought was of Phil Cardillo, what he must've been thinking, what the other brave cops were thinking. I was probably thinking the same thing; this is scary and dangerous. Behind us stood at least ten FOI men, in front another ten, led by Jacko. He said, “Let me see that court order.”
Harmon slowly, with a hint of distaste, handed it to the man and said, “What, did you forget where you were an hour ago?”
Richie's gun was out, though pointed in a non lethal position at the ceiling. My hand was gripped tightly on my tear away shotgun holster. Jacko handed the writ back to Harmon, “You can only search this vestibule.”
Harmon moved in close and almost whispered, “I know, I was there this morning.”
I moved to the spot where Mitchell 5X San-San told me the bullet was lodged. I removed a piece of asbestos and there it was, jammed into a beam. I dug it out with a penknife, extremely careful not to touch any part
of the actual projectile. I pulled it out, victorious. I showed the entire lobby and said three times, “See, see, see!” Let there be no miscommunication with these men thinking I had
flaked
or planted the bullet in the spot. I moved to the second location, maneuvered a piece of the ceiling and found number two, though this time, it fell to the floor. The Muslims immediately tried to grab at it, but Jim Harmon screamed, “No one touches that bullet. It is court property and evidence in a murder trial.”
They stepped back, and thank God, because there were a lot of big angry men in suits, itching for another April 14, 1972, this I can
guaran-fucking-tee
you.
We didn't say much in the car. I'm not too proud to say that I had been terrified throughout that entire encounter. The bullets made it all worthwhile. What they did was further dispel the idea that Phil was shot by a cop, or friendly fire. Those were Rudy Andre's bullets. Now we had real intrinsic physical evidence. The case was moving along sweetly.
The next day on the stand, I tried my damnedest to figure out who the courtroom poet was. I couldn't do it. Jacko started in with the questions.
Why weren't the bullets removed immediately? What kind of police department walks away from a crime scene...?
He hammered away, and I, with the leadership of Jim Harmon, hammered back. I said, “We weren't allowed into the mosque, because there were a voluminous number of Muslim soldiers stationed at the doors, and we, the police, were told to stand down. And no ballistics men were allowed in the building, told to us by our superiors.”